


Message Received and Understood

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Epistolary, Hurt/Comfort, Retirement, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter. A telegram.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Message Received and Understood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt: Retirement era/WWI-era I-miss-you. With hopefully suitable Victorian reticent gentlemen tweaks.

Artifact #15044, Undated correspondence, plain-paper stationery, ball-point pen, badly creased and worn, one edge and cover envelope missing:

 

My dear fellow,

I have few peers in matters of logic, reasoning, deduction, and analysis, but when it comes to matters of correspondence, I fear that I am sadly lacking. I either rattle on interminably like the most scatter-witted of my former clients, or I am terse to the point of insult. Either way, I frequently fail to convey my point, which is inexcusable in anyone, much less myself. And I did so yet again, in my last to you. I know this, and I shall try not to fail again. At the very least, I can answer some of your questions.

You asked about London and how I found it, whether it was much changed. In its particulars, London is as much as it ever was; Whitehall has not changed its location, Nelson still stands guard over his square, and the Thames is as fetid as ever. As a whole, however, London is strange to me. It is not the city we knew, but a harder, noisier, colder place. It is also full of memories of earlier times, when London was the entire world to me; when I knew every mews and alleyway; when I recognized every street-urchin and beggar and bobby; when everything about it was familiar. I have no such familiarity now, know very few of the faces I see every day, and yet I keep searching them, unconsciously hunting for those that I once knew. I reside here, but it is not home to me. Not now. Nor is Sussex home, when I can spare the time to take the train and check up on the little cottage. (Yes, I have done so, as you so carefully did not come out and ask in your last.) There are too many memories there, as here, and not enough presence. The structure remains sound, walls and roof and windows holding up under the weather, but it is only a shell of what it once was. And I am afraid that the garden will take years to recover fully, if ever this bitter wind passes. It is dormant now, and cannot revive without care. And there is no one to care for it. War has stolen all labour.

Was that descriptive enough for you, dear chap? I did my best to emulate your expository style, although I think you will agree that I have no talent for fiction. And your romantically-tinged prose is quite beyond my powers, but I trust that my pathetic attempt will amuse you if nothing else.

As for the war itself, the pictures painted of it in the Times and other papers is bleak indeed. I can only imagine that it is a pale echo of your reality. When I think of you, mired in the middle of it, my blood runs cold. War is such a terrible, chancy thing. Not that I need tell you that, of course. You know it far better than I, have experienced it personally. I know you carry the scars of your last war both within your memory and on your person. I can easily infer from your messages that while you have thus far escaped any physical reminders of this one, you already carry the marks of this terrible conflict in your soul. This grieves me more than I can say. All I can do is urge you to share what you can in your letters, if by so doing you can ease some of the burden you must carry. You know you can trust in my discretion. But if writing of it cannot help you, you need not utter a word on the subject. To paraphrase one of the wisest and bravest men I have ever met, it is and will ever be my greatest joy and privilege to help you, however I may, in whatever capacity.

I have covered nearly a page, and yet said little of what I truly meant to say. I only hope that this will suffice, that you will understand me as you always have done. In this, as in so many things, I am lost without my Boswell.

Send me messages when you can, dear fellow. Even a single line is sufficient. Pray give my thanks to your orderly, Bates, for helping ensure your safety and thereby the safe delivery of your last, and believe me to be,

Very sincerely you—

[Remainder of page is missing]

 

Artifact #15055, telegram form, folded in quarters, badly faded:

MESSAGE RECEIVED AND UNDERSTOOD STOP MY SINCEREST REGARDS TO [MISTER JOHNSON](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Johnson) STOP I MISS HIM TOO STOP DEFINITELY MY MOST INTERESTING CASE STOP I WILL TREAT WHATEVER AILS HIM ON MY RETURN STOP WILL ADVISE IN FURTHER CORRESPONDENCE STOP JHW FINAL STOP

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 22, 2011


End file.
